theThe rev Rev & haringeyHaringey Unchained& unchainedin collaboration with Durham University

mightieryoung pens are even mightier

VOLUME SIX A MAGAZINE BY CREATIVITYUNLEASHED The Rev and Haringey Unchained with special guest Durham University

Over the 2021 academic year, while global efforts to combat Covid-19 increased, students from Haringey Sixth Form College (H6FC) in London, Durham University in England and Russell Sage College in Troy, New York met every two weeks virtually to explore their new normal through the creative arts. A programme of workshops and talks from innovative professionals in the culture sector inspired them to editorialise the work of their communities. They came together to create this year’s Haringey Unchained, a special edition with Russell Sage College’s literary arts magazine: The Rev. This is why you will see a synthesis of British and American English throughout this magazine. Our group also partnered with Durham University through Edith Sandulescu, a previous Haringey Unchained editor.

Now in its seventh year and sixth volume, this edition is a true testament to the spirit of our communities as we face a world without in-person arts – a world upturned by social and political change, a global pandemic and individual loss. Our editorial teams selected contributions from over 350 submissions. The final product here is what we believe reflects the key concerns and celebrations of these voices.

Inside, you can find the following: - Poetry - Fiction - Nonfiction - Photography - Illustration/Drawing - Painting - Collage - Digital Artwork

The editors of Haringey Unchained were invited to serve as panel judges for the Middlesex University Fairtrade Fortnight Spoken Word Competition to promote climate change awareness. The winning entry can be found on page 96. Issue Six This year also saw a huge development in the overall project that was initially Haringey Unchained, a collective of students showcasing the creative talent of H6FC. Now, these Haringey Unchained alumni, developing professionals in their own fields, have come together to form a not- for-profit: CreativityUnleashed. This new independent organisation Meet the disseminates the Haringey Unchained model more widely, working to connect young people across oceans, to show the power of the creative arts to break boundaries, to make supportive links for future careers and to participate in our global context. This year, the CreativityUnleashed editors’ leadership enabled all participating schools to produce this beautiful and comprehensive magazine. TeamsThe Rev Team: - Emily Boehm – Copy Editor In addition to all of the schools that have facilitated this project, we would · Hunter Chaney – Fiction Editor also like to thank the following professionals whose workshops and talks · Noah Dougherty – General Editor inspired our magazine every step of the way: · Cassandra McMullin – Poetry Editor · Daniela Withington – Art Editor - Zena Alkayat, Founder of Bloom Magazine, London UK · Angie Smith – Lead Staff from Russell Sage College, Writing Teacher - Michelle Bowen, Artist, New York USA and Founder of CreativityUnleashed - John Canfield, Poet, London UK - Tanner Efinger, Founding Artistic Director of Haringey Unchained Team: Breadcrumbs Productions, New York USA · Stefana Craciun – Poetry Editor - Patrick Heagney, Artist and Professional Photographer, Georgia USA · Abeeha Hassnain – Fiction Editor - Alex Thomson, Novelist, Welwyn Garden City England · Maysoon Sheikh – General Editor - TJ Volgare, Screenwriter and Film Director, North Carolina USA · Amir Tubekan – Art Editor · Emma Chambers – Lead Staff from Haringey Sixth Form College, Stipends for workshop presenters and talks and publication of the printed English Teacher version of The REV/Haringey Unchained were funded by Russell Sage College’s Carol Ann Donahue Endowed Fund. CreativityUnleashed Team: · Lina Charki – Poetry Co-Editor Cover artwork by Eva Moss from Durham University. · Ozge Erdur – General Editor

· Heather Gilchrist – Fiction Editor Visit our website: www.creativity-unleashed.org for further information · Mariah John-Leighton – Art Co-Director and to see all of the other incredible pieces we didn’t have space to publish · Andreea Pavel – General Editor in print. Follow us on instagram: @creativityunleashed_org. Haringey · Monika Reich – Art Co-Director & Web Manger Unchained can still be found at: www.haringeyunchained.com. · Edith Sandulescu – Chief Editor Durham University & Flat-Plan Manager

· Joseph Unadike – Magazine Launch Production Manager · Amina Yussuf – Poetry Co-Editor

2 3 Dear 2020 Woodhouse College Ollie Opara www.linktr.ee/OliviaOpara

Dear 2020, You brought us cheers That turned to fears Of a third world war And wildfires none foresaw.

You gave us a pandemic And everyone shopped in panic A world-wide lockdown Everyone must mind their own.

You handed theYou young handed bravery the young bravery To battle 400 yearsTo battle of slavery 400 years of slavery Shouting with allShouting their might with all their might To save all our humanTo save rights. all our human rights.

You offered us a short repreve So we could all finally breathe Yet you smiled with glee As you worsened our reality.

You granted us mercy By making things easier And everything seemed okay Like when I found my father, Clay.

You shunned us forYou our shunned joy us for our joy And, oh, you were soAnd, coy oh, you were so coy Leading up to ourLeading festivities up to our festivities You raised all ourYou anxieties. raised all our anxieties.

Haringey Sixth Form College You awarded us with struggle Chloe DeSilva @chloe_de_silva And showed us lots of trouble So now we’ve all grown Next year, better seeds will be sown.

4 5 DRAWING POETRY FrustrationJoseph Unadike CreativityUnleashed @joewrites You see this week I’ve seen something I’ve seen a black man plead for his life As he yells numerous “I can’t breathes” Words that mean nothing Every cry of “I can’t breathe” I watched breathlessly A life taken by another man’s knee mercilessly Now I’m breathless And with my dying breath I continue to speak up Speak up for those oppressed Those who walk the streets Streets with melanated skin In fear of the white man Whose finger inches to pull the trigger A trigger to pierce your melanated skin Nina speaks of strange fruits Blood on the leaves I wonder why Why the darker berry continues to be squeezed Freedom Flies Squeezed and hung dry Jodi Lynn Russell Sage College Yet they expect my fruits to stay sweet The revolution will be televised I stay restless because racism still exists My black skin is still a target The preacher utters “Here lies the deceased” Tears of Mothers and Daughters now released This black boy from South London Permanently put to sleep

6 7 PHOTOGRAPHY POETRY Self Image CreativityUnleashed Heather Gilchrist @heather__gilchrist

Her hair, touched by the sun falls effortlessly A prison set to her own design into place, there is no room to call her mine shaping her pale face as she looks to me with grace. Decorated with hatred, every compliment is negated Her blue eyes call to me like a siren as I fall deeper and deeper into her gaze. Cold and alone any help is thrown, I catch myself gasping she believes her fate is sown as if the icy sea has found its way into me and into my heart. Possessed by stubbornness I am pulled in to her ocean eyes. she guides herself with a dooming compass Blind and deaf to herself, there is no helping She is made from star dust as she dances her alone underneath the sky, as the darkness inside her prison begins to wishing the stars could hear her battle cry stir every compliment, for she dances to the hum of the earth, and awareness begins to blur to the drum of her Power. …

She knows too much and yet speaks so little Her hair falls effortlessly into place. that in her stillness I find myself yearning for her voice Her blue eyes call to me. to speak truths to me, to tell me the old rhymes, She is made from star dust. to tell me things are going to be alright. She knows too much but speaks so little. Her hands are gentle and soft to the touch as she sews and weaves marvellous stories Her hands are gentle and soft. that makes me lose all my worries while she lives in purgatory. She lives in a prison of her own design.

She lives in purgatory… I cannot call her mine. Form Haringey Sixth Form College Kiera Robinson-Brown @itsofficialkeke

8 9 DRAWING POETRY Unfinished Girl CreativityUnleashed Mariah John-Leighton "Time. They say that time Time. They say that time heals all wounds. But years later, the scars remain. heals all wounds. But years Physically, no, my arms and stomach no longer resemble a galaxy wallpaper that people use for a computer screen background. The precise lines dotted across my body are now later, the scars remain." faint, almost invisible to outsiders. I no longer wear those large crimson handprints as a I was his prized possession, his unruly stallion. That’s what he called me. He used to choker. The battle scars on my body have faded, along with that rose-coloured attitude. tell me how I would be more loveable once broken. More refined, he said. Defeated, he The words though, I’m still healing from them. Whoever said sticks and stones may break meant. The best stallions are the toughest to break, he told me. And boy did he break me. my bones, but words can never harm me, clearly have never encountered a man like him. If I were a marble slab, he would be the sculptor chiselling away at my stone. The more time I spent with him, the more pieces of me crumbled. Until I became a masterpiece in The words hissed at me, slithered from the serpent’s tongue, wormed their way through his image. His legacy. And now he’s gone. Leaving me an eroded mess with pieces miss- my defences, under the pretenses of love. Burrowed in the holes made by my insecurities, ing while someone else is stumbling to find them. hiding behind them to mask his agenda. That voice, a gun and every word shot at me is a bullet hole, easily tearing through my soft skin, killing off what was left of the optimist I wish I could say that I was strong enough to leave. That after all the abuse I endured I in me and leaving behind a half-empty girl. No matter how hard I try to block it out, he’ll finally gained the courage and learnt my self-worth. Though I tried and tried and tried, always have a residence in my brain. Wherever I go, he’s there, always with me, his words any spark of hope I had could never light up a fire with the hurricane winds coming from stuck in my head like a sad song, playing a haunting melody. his tongue. In the end, Death was my saviour. She did what no one else could; she got me away from him. Her tactics, some may say, a bit extreme. But every day I am thankful that Sometimes I wonder how I fell into this trap. When we first met, I was presented with a she took mercy on me. different image of him. With his perfectly unkempt, long chestnut hair that framed his handsome face, and neat stubble that surrounded his devilish smile. How was I supposed In the years that he has been gone, I built scabs around my heart. But every so often to know he hid fangs behind that grin? his words slink in, playing Chinese whispers in my brain, planting fictions. Warping my confidence before slowly making its way toward my heart and picking at the scab, like Sometimes I follow that image I have of him to the beginning, just to relive the start of how he used to pick me apart. Leaving the wound open, bloody and defenceless like the the relationship. When it was good between us. When he actually cared. When it actually girl he wanted me to be. felt like he loved me. He wasn’t like the other guys I had met; he bewitched me and stole my heart. Seduced me with his smile, gained my trust with his innocent eyes and con- It’s an ongoing cycle. I move on, finally thinking that I am healing and then his voice stantly reassured me with his confident aura. I felt safe, happy, and in love. Like I had met slithers back, and ruins the work I’ve done. There’s still an invisible thread that runs from my person. It didn’t take long for it to turn. I used to compare our love to one of those old his corpse to mine and unfortunately, you can’t break what you cannot see. Hollywood films. The black and white ones with the perfectly scripted romance scenes, but the only similarities are that he left me devoid of colour. No matter how hard I try, I remain that girl.

Unfinished. Sculpted by the sculptor.

10 11 FICTION Amaryllis: A ‘Love’ Story Angie Smith Russell Sage College

Here, where I still stand, a flower starts to bloom in my chest and there’s a golden arrow in my hand

that draws blood, peels its petals from a strand. I raise the tip in quiet unrest from where I still stand.

Thirty days, thirty times stained red sand beneath my feet reveals the fruits of this test and there’s a golden arrow in my hand.

Its violent protests planned by my battered hands; I’m a lover possessed. Here, where I still stand

an Oracle’s careless command Painted Tears punctures, pinches straight through my breast Bibi Gull and there’s a golden arrow in my hand.

It grows, winds its way towards my shepherd’s demands bursting beyond my skin, crimson, distressed. Haringey Sixth Form College Here, where I still stand there’s a golden arrow in my hand.

12 13 DRAWING POETRY with him. remember was onlybeingaware ofwhatwas actuallygoingononceshewas inthecab But shedidn’tactuallyremember this. And itwasn’t whatreallyhappened. What shedid they’d talked for hours, andafteradrinkortwo, heasked ifshewanted toleavewithhim. the nightkindofdisappeared. IfyoucouldaskLouisa, shewouldtellyouthatthought having troubleprocessinghiscoy, albeitverycliched words. Shemanagedanod. Then He glancedsideways ather. “Come hereoften?” Evenhisvoicewas perfect. Louisawas and nowthathewas closeenoughtotouch, itwas evenmoreevident. slid ontothestoolnexttoher. Shewas stillturnedtoward him, staring. Hewas intoxicating, he looked upand, seeingherstaring, picked uphisdrinkandmadeway overtoher. He As hetookaslowsipofhisdrink, Louisafoundthatshecouldn’tstoplookingathim. Finally, glasses. And thentherewas themaninbluesuit. straightening tablesthatwerealreadystraight. The barmanwas cleaningthealreadyclean couple satalmostontopofeachotherinabooththefarcorner. A waiter milledaround, tipping backherglassanddrainingathirdofit. Evenfora Tuesday, itwas veryempty. A of sleep. Itgreatlyaffectedthepresentation. Shefinallytookstockofhersurroundingsafter that was the BigMeeting. The maninthebluesuitfilled herhead, andshe was losingalot looking around. Ithadbeenahardday; sheorderedaCorona andreflectedonthedisaster between them. When shefirst walked in, sheploppeddownatthisendof thebarwithout bar satthemaninbluesuit. There wereonlybarstoolsandastretchofcountertop On a Tuesday night, inanemptybar, Louisaperchedonabarstool. At theotherendof than quietlylinger. the way his eyesseemedtoboreintoherthatcausedmemorynowdoalittlemore walking out. Heheldthedoorforherandsmiled. There was somethingaboutthatsmileand She sawhimagain, aweeklater. Walking intoherfavoritecoffeeshop, sheranintohim her mindbeforeshe’d evenreachedtheoffice. Butthemaninbluesuitwouldlinger. someone she’d hadapassingglanceatthroughcarwindowwould’vedisappearedfrom of thestreet. and hehadjustbeenstanding, waiting forthewalk signto illuminateontheotherside The firstdayshe’d seenhimonthestreetcorner, he’d caughthereye. Buthercabflewpast, Of course, manytried. LouisaKent triedtoo. attractive inmen. Buttherewas somethingabouthimonecouldn’tquiteputtheirfingeron. features hadbeendeterminedbybringingtogetherallofthethingsthatpeoplefoundmost The maninthebluesuitwas whatonemightcalla “perfect specimen.” Helooked asifhis How hehadcaughthereyeinthatsecond, shecouldn’thavesaid. Normally, Hunter Chaney Linger FICTION 14 Russell Sage College “You cameandsatnextto statement, anobservation. nothing threateninginhistone. Actually, itseemeddevoidoftoneentirely. Itwas a “You’ve beenwaiting forme,” hesaidaslocked thedoorbehindthem. There was building, butwhocouldtellanymore?Heunlocked adoorandtheywentinside. car, usheringherthroughthefrontdoor. Sheassumeditmusthavebeenanapartment The cabstoppedatadarkbuilding. Hepaidthedriverandhelped Louisaoutofthe And theblackhole, whichiswaiting toswallow allspaceandtime, sitswithinhismouth. window ofthebusshejustgot on, andnowhewouldlinger. hears somethingandsmilesto himself. RebeccaCranecaughtaglimpseofhim from the He stopsatthecornerofintersection andwaits forthewalk sign toilluminate. He down thestreet. It’s morningnow, andpeoplearerushingaboutontheirway towork. his tie. Hesteppedoutofthecraterwheredarkbuilding hadbeenandwalked The maninthebluesuitstretched, crackinghisneckfromsidetoside, andstraightened scream, butwas gonebeforeshehadthechance. to seesomethingdark, darker thanshecouldpossiblydescribe. Sheopenedhermouthto his mouthseemedtobegettingwider. Sheopenedhereyesandlooked up, longenough Everything was distinctlyseductive, but, slowly, hisarmsfeltlike theykept wrappingand her waist. Heleaneddownandkissedher. “What areyoutalking….” Butshelostallcoherentthoughtashisarmswrapped around him aboutthat. Hegrabbedherhandsandpulledup, guidingherintothebedroom. since yousawmefromthecabwindowthatday.” The fogclearedalittle. Shehadn’ttold “No, you’vebeenthinkingaboutme. You haven’tbeenabletogetmeoutofyourhead smiled andshookhishead. something entirelydifferent, suddenly realizedthathedidn’tsmelllike anything. Whether itwas sweat, orcologne, or In thedeadsilenceofride, withthemaninbluesuit’s armaroundher, she

linger. “But themaninblue suit wouldlinger.” me no one no atthebar,” Louisasaid, asshesunkintothecouch. He didn’tsmelllike anything. 15 Trees of Gold Chicken Skin Lobes Russell Sage College Haringey Sixth Form College Lauren Atwood Barbara Graham

My Mother’s ears once held the key to all I ever needed. They were my bit bit, my blankie, my I can sleep now, it is well with my world. I felt them yesterday, still soft between the print of my thumb and fore finger. They hang flat now, long and creased like that in between chicken wing skin with no tapioca gristle to play with and I, am grown now way too big for your fragile lap. If I could, I would express from my breasts all my good fats into an umbilical syringe so the botox experts could insert it into all the right places between your sagging flesh on bone and stop, only when your lobes are filled enough and fat enough for you to feel you can sleep now, it is well with the world.

16 17 PAINTING POETRY Boredom Anna Horwich Durham University

Lonely From the Inside Russell Sage College Michele Scott-Robertson

82yr old mother with dementia falls and breaks leg In the hospital, rolled away beyond visit boundaries Now transferred to rehab further away from loved ones Imagine being lost and taken deeper in the woods Seeing many faces of people, none of which you know At times feeling afraid and not even knowing yourself No family to hug or remind you who you are Unfamiliar pictures hang on the walls around the room Knowing you have to go to the bathroom but not remembering to ask Sitting incontinent until someone comes to change you Not knowing two weeks ago you were walking to the bathroom You would not dare be incontinent and not clean yourself immediately Deep inside, you miss something or someone but can’t pinpoint it A Facetime opportunity - finally you see the loved one you missed Your eyes brighten like the sunlight and you instantly remember Almost as soon as Facetime ends you descend into increased confusion Technology is not understood by a person with dementia; it’s almost a mean tease. @ahorwich_art

18 19 PAINTING POETRY Playtime in Hsipaw, Myanmar Michael Groissl Russell Sage College www.Instagram.com/groissl

20 21 PHOTOGRAPHY Collective Feminism Haringey Sixth Form College Amir Tubekan

I need feminism because I need feminism because I was born into a world the words Me Too are still that tells me it is wrong to uttered by the few love a man and be a man – brave enough be one at the same time. because if a girl’s not ‘easy,’ she’s a bitch. I need feminism because I am told that my feelings are not real, I need feminism because that I should just ‘man up,’ I am now 19 and still don’t feel because comfortable a woman’s mental health is asking my family to pay for therapy; hysterical yet a guy’s is shameful. I need therapy because I didn’t grow up with feminism. I need feminism because I am told to dress like a man, We need feminism because to just try and be one of the guys, she does, because he does, women, too, are given a dress code – they do. predetermined by their body types, deemed appropriate by patriarchy.

I need feminism because women still don’t have autonomy over their bodies, not entirely.

I need feminism because the male gaze, because Bloomed locker room talk, Durham University because Emma Jespersen toxic masculinity. @emma.jespersen

22 23 DIGITAL ART POETRY These Colours of You Edith Sandulescu Durham University @edith.sandulescu burn foryou. but thatredreminds mewhatitfeltlike to Inside me, allIfeelisblackand blue, briefly. leaves abrilliantoutlineinthe night sky- enveloping thedefiant, risingmoon. It like theresiduefromashrinkingsun I wearred, asharp, brightsunsetred I cryforyou. is allIseenowwhen because black I thinkinblack, layeredshades when Idreamofyou. is thecolourIsee I knowthatbecauseblue In space, everythingisblue. Waiwai Su POETRY Eyes 24 @waiwai_s00 DRAWING Durham University I’m tiredofthismadness. This game, thisinjusticeisenough. This separationisenough. Stop settingtrapsinmypath. I’m tiredofthismadness. This game, thisunfairnessisenough. Stop settingtrapsinmypath. Like acryingchild’s face, Ilayallalone. Like theashesofasecretfire. Like thelyricsofameaningfulsong. offended, fearfulandinnocent. told mysecrettothenewstartingday I calledyou, calledforyourvoice hopeless withgriefandlonely. and shoutedyournametothenight’s face I walked aroundeverystreetofthiscity Enough! Ulas Dogan Enough POETRY Haringey SixthForm College 25 enough! enough, Enough, Into the Slaughterhouse Train “No one remembers; no one Haringey Sixth Form College Maysoon Sheikh remembers our sufferings. August 1947. The sky was on fire. Wipe off Muslim blood It was the kind of sky that wore the Indian chili-red of dusk, although it was only noon. I stood still, a prominent outlier, detached from the stampede of indistinctive blurs. The Eve of on Hindu pants.” Ramadan birthed two new nations, turning citizens into refugees overnight. Anxious mortals swarmed the carriage. Some fell from the top. “Ha! Leaving Muslim minority on mercy of Hindu majority. Like feeding us to lions. ” This The giant, tricoloured flag that I once belonged to glared defiantly at me against the more commanding voice electrocuted the fragility of silence. Pink Slippers. “You call this just? bloodshot redness of the sky, taunting me with interminable India saffron under whites after We should fight back!” His naan-stained spit flew out. “India is now an enemy nation, kaffirs greens. Then I realised I never belonged to the flag. that threw us out and I say we play the Hindu game. End all wars with Muslim victory!”

It owned me. His thunderous voice bellowed through the train. I closed my eyes as the sound boomed in my ears and the train seemed to be moving faster; a piercing white shrill puncturing my Mama hurriedly pushed through and took my hand, shoving me into the crowded train. Her mind. hand was sweating. She never sweats. I looked behind to see Baba walking briskly with the same too hollow, too depthless, almost hostile mien; a resolute hand gripped the delicate I remember Kumar. tasbih beads. He was Hindu and my greatest friend. When our village’s fountain ran short of water, Kumar The train trapped a stench of broken wisps of life, bodies spooned like commas, waiting, would tell me when it was safe to come out from my hiding spot from under a broken linking, waiting, linking. carriage and collect water from the Hindu fountain. He liked astronomy, looking at the stars and we were so similar. There were two men next to two free seats. One wore pink slippers while the other wore blue slippers. “I’ll sit on the floor.” Baba passed me his tasbih beads, then walked further ahead Yet our differences were much greater. and sat closer to the doors. One afternoon, they caught me, shoved me into the dirt but wouldn’t touch my skin, afraid I perched at the edge of the rickety seat beside Mama who whispered prayers to herself. I my Muslim blood was dirty. When they were finished, they bent to pet the stray dogs instead. edged closer to her, trying to find comfort in her Amber Rose scent. It always seemed like Kumar watched and I later smiled with volition between every blood-smeared tooth as he the scent could, for a time, stifle my anxiety and make me a little more manful, a little more gave me back my bucket. “For you, my brother.” Empty but brimming with guilt. assured, a little less aware of the warm, sweaty pressure of bodies enclosing me. There was, He and I were two paradoxical creatures, placed at two opposite ends of two worlds with for an aching moment, a silence that was only overpowered by the sparks and strains from two distinctly separate lives. And yet we somehow felt so at one. the mass of loosely held metal. “You’re wrong.”

“First they ignore you. Then they ridicule you. And then attack you and want to burn you.” I The impulsively bold statement was triggered by the harsh jolt of the train, the rails chugging turned my head to hear the passenger who broke the impermanence of silence. Blue slippers. unsteadily onwards to a destination of uncertainty. Two towers of condescension loomed over “And then put you in history books to teach our kids. No one remembers, no one remembers me as their angered glares became inflamed with the need to feel superior. our sufferings. Wipe off Muslim blood on Hindu pants.” Mama placed a warning pressure on to my side and I felt the tasbih beads poking my skin. But then I thought of Kumar.

26 27 FICTION of the train threw back the echoes of intimidation levelled by conscripted Hindus. The grainy “Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that.” My voice was faint compared taste of sick settled on my tongue when the soldier’s combat boots wafted the musty scent of to Baba’s steel eyes illuminating his anger against my outspokenness, and yet I continued. blood under the seats.

“India is not a nation, nor a country. It is a subcontinent of beautiful nationalities. The “Muslims! Muslims! Come forward!” Passengers’ bare feet and sandals were tucked in tight; tapestry of our culture is deeply entwined with theirs.” Through the window, under the cuffed by the legs, cuffed by fear. dangling feet, the Sun’s orange-rubies ran its colours down onto the Earth. “So why should we unravel it? An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.” “You!”

The men looked at me with cynical amusement plastered onto their sun-baked skin, at the The boots stopped. “Are you Muslim?” Straps of familiar pink laced the man’s feet. colours of my language that were beyond my years. “Does it scare you this much if I am?” A cocking of a machete tightened a string of dread “What are you saying boy? These people are wolves in our lands, understand?” Blue Slipper around my lungs. had hairy feet, like wolves. A new pair of boots entered the scene, but these carried only the pitiful, pliable mud. “You don’t want to fight for Muslim nation, ha?” Pink Slipper’s spit flew everywhere. “Fight “General.” His feet were fidgety and his voice could be no more than three years older than for Muslim people who are hunted by Hindu animals? So flag of Pakistan flies over-” mine; pitiful and pliable. “We already burned five carriages and our men are wounded-” “So we leave this one? You forget how they killed your brother? His warm blood on your “There is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people.” The train was hands.” There was a contemplative silence in the crowded cage that shouldn’t have been a silent graveyard. I felt Baba’s eyes on me. “There is no war that will end all wars. Only the there. If I listened closely, I could hear the guttural growl of flames from the carriage behind dead have seen its end.” us.

The words solidified, suspended in the air like a simultaneous hanging of all their blind hope, A yell left an expired soul. hovering just above their reach in the soundless train. I glanced at Baba to see his stare glazed with something that belied the coldness of his eyes. Pride? Men began to shout and a fleet of furious feet crashed "A cocking into Hindu boots. It was a blur, the thumping of feet A muted scream brought our heads up. and chests, the grunts and groans of rage and pain, the of a machete The lights flickered. The engine slowed down. The train stopped. Hearing the sounds of my second gunshot and another and another, until the last tightened a string Mama’s amplified breathing did nothing to calm mine. gunshot signed the death warrant of one more life. A sea of red began to coat the floor, and by the time I felt of dread around “Mama. Why have we stopped?” Mama looked at Baba. Baba nodded. the sticky warmth soak into my shirt, from under the A hard clot of fear grew inside my stomach. The solitary volume of Death’s knock on the train seat I could see the general’s boots and a martyr who my lungs." door ironed out all creases of silence. wore pink slippers. My Baba was just as fearless.

“This train is no longer heading to Pakistan.” “Baba!”

A dagger for a voice felt like a shove to my grave as I lurched on to the floor. But I soon Electricity ran through my back at the realisation I had spoken. Mama kicked back my realised it was Mama’s sweating hand that was shoving me under the seat. My vision was exposed hand, still gripping her sari from under the seat. I shuffled back to the walls of the now restricted to feet. train as I heard the soldier’s boots getting closer. He stopped right in front of Mama. I was unable to move or even think as I heard the Hindu’s ring travel along his rifle. Deathly boots knotted the noose for Mama, Baba, and Slippers Pink and Blue as the walls

28 29 “Stand up, Muslim.” His young voice was glazed with a subtle insecurity that belied his mask of "I smelt the intimidation. The base of Mama’s sari rose up as metallic she did. She was crying. I reached out to grip her sari again. “Please. My family.” fragrance of I I smelt the metallic fragrance of death before I death before heard the trigger click. I watched Mama’s white I heard the sari saturate in red, watched her fall on her chest until she was facing me, watched the interjected trigger click." finger arrest the beating of her clock as my grip on her sari shook with anguish but never surrendered. The copper rosy scent of her blood was a dark mutation of her Amber-Rose.

Two more sprays of violent metal, and something in my mind shifted. I crawled out from under the seats. In my pocket, I felt Baba’s cold, delicate tasbih beads and thick, warm blood. The train resembled the butcher’s truck, headless bodies lined up, a slaughterhouse. A tide of anger consumed me as I ran towards the only soldier left on the train.

The young Hindu.

His back crunched as my knuckles collided with his spine. “You filthy Hindu, bring me back my family!” He turned and pointed his gun at me and I stopped.

“Kumar?”

Kumar’s eyes held layers of fear and he shoved me back on to the blood-splattered floor. The hard pressure of his rifle weighing against my throat stationed me.

Until it was gone. One, final gunshot was enshrined by curdled silence. I sat up and watched Kumar’s lifeless Swirl body, his rifle resting on his own ruptured throat. The train started to chug forwards with Haringey Sixth Form College ease, as if it wasn’t carrying the occupants of newly dug graves, as if I wasn’t lying in the Emile Wilson pool of Muslim and Hindu blood.

Kumar looked at me and rasped out, blood spluttering. “For you, my brother.”

30 31 PAINTING Quarantine in the Canadian Maritimes Barbara Thompson Russell Sage College

32 33 PAINTING Enemy Stefana Craciun Haringey Sixth Form College

Drawn to that mystery left me bruised, my skin now engraved by your touch. I can’t help but feel used by a love that hit harder than your punch.

Your fire still burns me but I am at fault for it. Our love was just a mirage, So is it so bad that I like being your enemy?

Made me bleed because you liked the way red looked on me, “loved” me while they were consuming your thoughts. You could have pretended to care, at least for a while Couldn’t take all the heat now that you were caught.

Keen to let you roam in my mind in case you didn’t want to be left behind. Afraid my heart will always linger towards yours. Now I know how “forever and always” echoes in a broken promise... Enemy @timelapsewith22

Eye of the Tiger Anushka Suresh Durham University

34 35 PAINTING POETRY McKinstryFoodCourt Russell Sage College Laurel Petersen

36 37 DRAWING 3 Black Dots Lisa Schieffelin Russell Sage College

World of Music Russell Sage College Cassandra McMullin

On D’s like these I see with E’s A world of music, F’s and G’s And A’s And buzzing B’s And not quite C’s, But a river.

Days crescendo Night descends A minor occurrence A major event Flat ground Sharp thorns An orchestra of cars and horns Outside my piano, a world of song Can’t help but watch And be singing along

38 39 PAINTING POETRY African, Caribbean, European – or Something in Between? Growing Up Mixed Heritage in a Changing World

Haringey Sixth Form College Amaia Rhea

The Wrong Rhythm As a child growing up in the late 2000s, my dream job was to be a dancer... but not just any dancer: a ballerina. I knew ballet stories such as The Nutcracker and Swan Lake like the back of my hand. I taught myself names of moves (an advantage of speaking French). But really quickly, I realised that something was unfitting with this dream. I was raised in a mainly Congolese environment, where no one did anything considered remotely ‘white.’ And like it or not, this was before a time when little black girls could see their mirror image in the ballerinas du jour. And so I would be at traditional weddings, dressed in pagne (traditional Congolese dress) and trying to pirouette, not realising that there were several judgemental eyes, thinking that I was rejecting my ancestors’ culture. What they did not realise was that actually ballet was also a part of my ancestry, as a child of mixed cultural heritage. Unfortunately, as a tiny six year old who wanted nothing more than to fit in, I gave up that dream. I had no idea that across the pond, Misty Copeland was stirring up a storm and breaking barriers for girls of mixed heritage like me. "...a classic conundrum of a girl caught between cultures"

Who We Are is Confusing Identity, who we are or what makes us “US”. A large part of that is our culture. It influences so Russell Sage College Russell Sage many aspects of our life: our food taste, dressing, family links, right down to our perception of the world. However, due to the mechanisms of colonisation and mass immigration over the last centuries, many grow up with two cultures at the same time. And within all this, occasionally you come across rare gems such as my siblings and I, who grew up with a combination of not two, not three, but four cultures.

We were all born in England but have a Congolese father and a mother who is already mixed, from both France and the French Antilles. We think and talk in two different languages and barely understand a third. Many people often wow and ooh when I tell them all this, but they The Polychotomy of Man The Polychotomy don’t realise how burdensome it can feel most of the time. Especially because some aspects of

Anna Derevyanchenko the cultures can be polar opposites, and you end up finding yourself stuck in the middle.

40 41 COLLAGE NONFICTION Family Matters You Know My Hips Don’t Lie Case in point: in the Congolese culture the concept of family is very important to the extent I never expected much of a growth spurt. Mainly because I realised very early that my parents that even close friends are considered as such. Aunties and uncles are referred to as Maman so- were short compared to other adults, and that I would very likely end up the same. So when my and-so and Papa so-and-so. The girl you grew up with - and who you are not in any way related secondary school changed our school uniform and my mama bought me my new blazer, I told to - is your cousin and may even be referred to as your sister. If tragedy strikes one person, her she should buy me a smaller size since I wouldn’t grow into it. She assured me I would. I the whole family congregates. This can lead to up to 200 people cramped into a small space, wore that same blazer from year 8 to year 11... and it was still too big for me when I finished which is never a great idea considering how dramatic Congolese people can be because it is secondary school! Now, at almost 19 years of age, I still have certain shirts I first wore when I guaranteed that during such gatherings “songi-songi” (slandering) or “bilobaloba”(gossiping) was 14. But I grew in a way not many people had expected. It hadn’t been a gradual change will be on the agenda! But this is also a silver lining, because I know that no matter what but one that snuck up out of nowhere. I’d gone to get a dress I hadn’t worn in a while; but happens to me in life, I can always count on someone being in my corner. suddenly, it didn’t pass my hips anymore.

However, family is not the same in the French culture – where water is definitely thicker I like to joke that my siblings have inherited the (few) height genes and I’ve inherited all the than blood. Where my maman’s childhood best friend has a larger impact on my life than thickness genes. The difference in my sister’s and my body shape is startling: she has inherited my maman’s sister. Where my grandparents are grandparents by title only, playing no part in the lean, slim European body, whereas I’ve got the pear shape more common in Africa. And my life. And even though my maman did have exposure to the culture of the Antilles and the even though I have learnt to love it and I now embrace it, this definitely was not the case respect that it gives family, similarly African in feel, it did not have the same impact on her. when it happened - again due to clashes in culture. Many of my African aunties gleefully told I personally see this clash of both cultures, the African and the European, within myself. Like me I had put on weight. Without context, it could seem as if they were trying to demean me. many African children, I have an African name as one of my middle names. I love that it is my But it was in fact the complete opposite. They were complimenting me, as this is seen as me koko’s (grandma) name, but I hate the fact that my other middle name is my auntie’s from my becoming a woman. Even though I knew what they meant, as a child who has always lived in maman’s side. Unfortunately, this is not the only thing in which confusion occurs. England, all I heard was an echoing ‘you’ve put on weight.’ Three years later and after a lot of work on learning to love myself, I am happy to say I have never been more comfortable with From Fufu to Canteen Chicken my body, regardless of and in spite of the changing European trends for how women should Thankfully, all the cultures I was raised in love to eat. In certain Asian countries that people look. eat with chopsticks. As Congolese children we are taught to eat with our hands. Fufu is usually one the first foods babies are introduced to when weaning, and we all grew up eating our The Closing Scene meat with our hands and teeth. In the Tetela tribe, where my dad is originally from, people My dream of becoming a ballerina may have been viewed as unrealistic when I was a child traditionally eat rice with their hands. It had never really occurred to me or any of my cousins given the fact that there were hardly any internationally famous ballerinas from a mixed or that not everyone ate certain things the same way we did. But I vividly remember the day I African heritage at the time. Without mentioning that it would have been more than likely that found this out. I was sitting in the canteen at my new secondary school, tiny and not wanting my immediate Congolese family would have not supported me to achieve that dream like a to stand out. My plate filled with dry rice and a large chicken drumstick. And then my shock “typical white” family would have (“white” girls having ballet lessons as children). A classic when my friend started to eat her chicken with her knife and fork! It’s been almost eight years, conundrum of a girl caught between cultures. But it is possible to find a comfortable spot in and I still haven’t gotten the hang of it. I once asked one of my cousins about it, and she told this mix, and my own experiences are always bringing me closer to it. I now hope to follow in me she stopped buying chicken at school, since she felt that she was wasting the meat. She the footsteps of Misty Copeland, Michaela DePrince, Letitia Wright and other strong women felt embarrassed to let her friend see her eat it with her hands, since growing up with two of colour who smashed down barrier after barrier, and have expanded the definition of what Congolese parents she’d never had to change to adapt to another culture. And it is at times like it means to be African, Caribbean and European. And so as tiring it can be, I wouldn’t ask to that I’m thankful that I’ve been exposed to many cultures – I find it easier to adapt and change. change my cultures for anything in the world. Mine (dare I say mines) makes me a strong, confident, mixed girl who loves who she is and can’t wait for the crazy ride of life.

42 43 Hidden Grief Anna Horwich Durham University @ahorwich_art

44 PAINTING Institutional Creativity Emma Chambers Haringey Sixth Form College

Blank page. No words. Just try.

Her words, No meaning, My words, No feeling,

Where’s the emotion?

Try harder. Knuckle down. Be thoughtful.

Fresh words, Too plain, Ambitious words, More pain,

You’re trying too hard!

Creativity flows. Feel inspired. Be natural.

Exciting words: Too cliché, Passionate words: Too risqué, Strings and Chords Russell Sage College I guess that’s the thing about institutions – Lauren Atwood They just aren’t creative.

46 47 POETRY DRAWING Skin Haringey Sixth Form College Tychae Wray

You want my thighs, hips and breasts But not my skin. You want my beauty But you don’t want my ugly. You want my hair but not the history behind it. On a girl that’s dark, You say a big mouth is ghetto and uncouth; We’re angry because we’re black. No! We’re angry about the way you want everything we have But not our struggle. You can’t be us without understanding our history; We didn’t begin with slavery. We are not only our skin’s colour. Yes the colour of my skin is a part of me But it isn’t everything: The brightness of my eyes is pure me, The way I write poetry is me, My smile, my bookishness is me. When you want someone, Want them - not the stereotype. One person is not a speaker or figurehead Of people with a certain skin colour, of a whole race. You should see with your eyes but also with your mind I mean don’t only see me, hear me Because I am more than just a stereotype You may think of when you see a Black Queen like me. Try Me Remember our features are our features. Haringey Sixth Form College They are not bits and pieces you can use as accessories; Bibi Gull They are not things that you can take out of envy.

48 49 DRAWING POETRY Airborne Moment Natalie Mercedes Russell Sage College what I miss What I Miss CreativityUnleashed Amina Yussuf

Now I am reminded of what I miss: The way we immerse ourselves in conversations Taking in the aroma of burnt coffee and lighting up the room together. We create an environment more inviting, for another to enter. And once they do, they are then left with time. Time to glance around the room, and to look at the sea of faces, each face creating an environment more inviting for another to enter.

So now, I am reminded of what I miss.

50 51 PAINTING POETRY Vigil for a Mother www.beanwriting.com Christopher Bean

The last time I was a mother, I was waving Darnley off in his dinghy. Polished mahogany flashed under an early autumn sun, the red of his sail slowly melting into the scarlet wall of maples on the great lake’s far side.

I’ve learnt when a parent loses a child, she becomes something undefined. Losing a breast in ‘89 ungendered me - something clothing or surgery couldn’t undo - but when life cut my boy from me, I couldn’t even call myself a mother.

So now I wait. To be a mother again.

In the study, I wait. In the kitchen where countless meals for one have been cooked, as I look vacantly over the sandy shore to that great mirrored firmament, I wait.

For the little white V, for the whipping slap of cord on weatherproof fabric. For the ting-ting of wire on an aluminium mast.

But Darnley doesn’t return. "So now I wait. To be a mother again.” And despite the storm-washed flotsam the plovers beachcomb on the mean shore, there’s no sign of wreckage.

After seven decades, his little arms must be tired from rowing back to me.

I wait. I’ll always wait.

I waited in the lounge when Sam - unable to carry the burden of blame, or continue his own vigil - left, leaving the lake house, his son, where I could not...

And now, as words and memories of eighty-something years hemorrhage from my mind, I only remember one thing:

You have to wait.

Time erodes my brain by stealth, like the wavelets washing the shore clean; my wedding day, first car, and last Christmas are sanded away, till eventually… I know I’m waiting, but what Son Haringey Sixth Form College for? And there, sitting like a lone red leaf amongst the now bare winter trunks, a distant red Marcella Kirby triangle bobs towards me, and an unrecognised word comes, unbidden.

Darnley.

52 53 FICTION DRAWING Suppressed Anger Russell Sage College Jaydin Cowan

What does anger do, When it sits inside of you? It collects and builds, Until it can no longer be contained and spills.

It will sit and rot, Until there it is not. Because it broke out in rage, And freed itself from its cage.

Perhaps poisonous it will become, which will make you turn numb. It will spoil all feelings inside Making the aspects of life hard to abide.

Is there much you can do, When there is no one to help you? The availability may be there, But their ability to help: scarce. Anger

There is an option to suppress, Witch Haringey Sixth Form College But the anger would still be unaddressed. Takudzwa Edwards Instagram: @idlm_art Tumblr: @idlm-art Figure it out fast because what will the anger do, If it sits inside of you...

54 55 POETRY DIGITAL ART Suppressed Anger Porcelain Russell Sage College Emily Boehm Mother Earth Shaylah Omar Independent Artist She wrapped trembling hands around the coffee cup, feeling the @shayandzacreate styrofoam underneath her fingertips. She scratched the surface with a fingernail, grounding herself, telling herself that this all was real.

It wasn’t a comforting thought.

The whispers still echoed in the darkest recesses of her mind, teasing threads of unease down her spine. She drew her legs in tighter to her chest and halted her breath. There was nothing more she could do now, anyhow; the windows were long since boarded up, the doors all locked, and the smashed remains of her cellphone were floating in the dregs of the toilet. The shower curtain was a flimsy barrier between her and the nothing that was out there. “The whispers She pressed her forehead against her knees, letting still echoed in the her breath go with a shaking sob, feeling every ounce of it drain from her and taking with it any semblance darkest recesses of of control she had mustered up. Breathe in, too quick, her mind, teasing and it came flowing back to her, and she pressed her lips together and stopped the air in her lungs once threads of unease more. down her spine.” “Mama,” the voice whined, and she whined piteously. @emilamay The coffee cup fell to the bottom of the tub and she pressed her hands to her ears. The door jerked helplessly in its frame, held fast by the deadbolt she had latched to it. “Mama, please come out. I’m hungry.”

“Don’t talk,” she mumbled. “Don’t talk, you don’t talk, stop it, stop it--”

The door banged against its lock, and she heard the footsteps retreat once more.

“There’s nothing there,” she told herself, but the breath was sliding free from her grasp again and she was gasping. Her hands were curled into tight claws against her thighs, pieces of styrofoam still stuck to the jagged tips. “There’s nothing there, just me, just me. Don’t you leave this room.” Her stomach was a pit and she knew, it knew. There was no stopping it.

56 57 FICTION PAINTING Goodnight, Love Bug Russell Sage College Abigale Trask

“Goodnight, love bug. Sleep well! And don’t let the bedbugs bite.” My father gives me a final goodnight hug, wrapping the blankets tightly around me. Little does he know the irony of what he flippantly says as a loving phrase from a caring father to a sleepy child.

I’ve tried to tell him before, but he never listens. No one ever listens. So, as he wraps me up and kisses my forehead, I simply sigh, knowing what is to come.

At my door, he turns back and smiles again, shutting the lights off as he "Every walks out of my room. He has left me to face the night alone. time they The clock on my mantelpiece ticks, ticks, ticks.

I lay in bed, those ticks much louder in my mind, and I stare come to at the corners of the room. My mother’s cheery reminder runs through: “Don’t worry! We patched the holes. They can’t get in.” me, they I try to relax my mind.

Everyone has told me that I worry for nothing, that they’re take just a harmless little creatures that bring good luck. But they have not experienced what I have. They have not been alone with them little more in the night. Maybe during the day, they seem good and peaceful beings, but when the clock strikes midnight, they couldn’t be any more different. of their

I turn over, pulling my blankets and stuffed animals close to me, lifeline" telling myself that it’s going to be okay. But as the time ticks toward the middle of the night, I get that familiar feeling. It’s like these creatures are crawling up my spine.

That’s how it always begins, night after night. Then comes the shadows, Uncertainty and before long, they engulf me. Durham University Shoun Obana As the night turns slowly toward the morning, it’s heavy and it keeps my @barneyobana limbs down. I look again to the corners; that’s when I see the shadows. They move in swathes towards my body. There is nothing that I can do. There never is.

58 59 PAINTING FICTION What’s Under the Bed The small creatures come from all four corners, slowly Haringey Sixth Form College Chloe DeSilva taunting me as they make their way over. When they @chloe_de_silva reach the height of my bed and position themselves underneath the blanket, they crawl on me, their little legs like needles as they come to cover me. I can only imagine what this looks like from above – thousands of red wings and black spots, and is that? Eye lashes! Beautiful, alluring eyelashes atop their beady little eyes. They are innocuous. Of course. When there is but one of them…

This blanket of bugs inches towards my face. And then they creep into my mouth, inside my nose, over my eyes. There are so many that I can’t even scream. I am choking on these creatures.

This goes on until the sun rises, when they move back into the shadows, to the corners. Because somebody might see them. They hide away, not showing themselves to anyone else.

No one ever believes me when I tell them. And that’s exactly what they want, because every time they come to me, they take just a little more of their lifeline…

60 61 DRAWING Please Love Me Haringey Sixth Form College Abeeha Hassnain

Poem inspired by Yuri on ICE, composed by Taro Umbeyashi. I feel flower buds grow in my throat and lungs. I don’t know which flowers they are yet Listen while reading (optional) but as you hold me, I can feel them slowly growing and twisting their vines and leaves around my ribs, winding into my heart so warmly. “In terms of flower language, tiger lilies mean please love me.” I recall your first words to me before slipping into that world where only you and I exist. Your closeness is home to me and I feel myself fall into you deeper and deeper as your hands hold me closer and tighter. Eyes closed and all I can feel is your lips on mine, your Your lips pressed gently against my back, hands barely there as the tips of your fingers love spilling into my mouth, trickling down my throat and watering those flowers in my ghost across the expanse of my skin. The shadow of your touch makes me lose all my heart. They grow even more, so close to blooming, and that’s when I feel it. senses as I drown in your warmth, and with closed eyes, I revel in the feeling of you. The curves and edges of our bodies fit together so perfectly as if they were made to, With your heart against mine, your eyelashes heavy, cheeks stained from the tears melting into each other as our hearts dance together to the sound of their own beating. that had rained down your face, I take your chin a delicate hold and look It makes me dizzy with feeling. into your golden eyes.

In this moment, with your body flush against mine, your fingers threading themselves Read my mind I want to say but I refrain as I stare into those orbs of sunlight and come with mine seamlessly, I feel your chest rise before you ask me if I think love is an illness. to the realisation that you deserve to hear it.

The low and sweet tone of your voice pulls me out of the pool of my mind, and dripping Oh you… in your touch, I slowly nod my head: yes. You proceed to ask me in a soft whisper if I want to be cured. My home. My moon, my stars, my sky. My everlasting light, never burning out and always glowing brighter than any sun in any universe. I breathe in your scent, falling deeper into you while I slowly exhale, the warmth of your body seeping into my skin and flowing through my veins, bringing me to life and I keep I feel the vines inside me grow and the flower buds twist and open before miraculously my eyes closed, resting in your arms before speaking. blooming into big, bold tiger lilies.

“Never.” “I love you.”

And it’s with that one word I feel you pull me even closer, holding me tight, your touch Please love me. electric as you press my lips against yours.

Suddenly everything comes to a blissful stop.

62 63 POETRY Swimmer CreativityUnleashed Lina Charki

There’s a Moroccan saying that the sea only takes the swimmers, and that made sense to me because I am a swimmer drowning in the waves of you.

Giving In Durham University Eva Moss @eevamoss

64 65 POETRY PAINTING Pink Russell Sage College Emily Boehm @emilamay The telescope of his mind was thin and narrow, and he was trapped. He was Remi, he knew, and he was alone. The marbled walls were pink and glistening wetly, a sheen of something slick and slimy clinging to the surface. He avoided touching them for fear of transferring that marbled slick onto his hands—did he have hands? He looked carefully at them, studying the slender fingers, cocking his head. Were those hands? He didn’t know… What were hands, anyways? Was there anybody around to tell him? Who even knew?

Not him, that was for sure.

All he did know was one thing: he was Remi. Remi was him. Remi lived here, so that meant he lived here, did it not? So why did this place look so unfamiliar? He walked slowly up the hall, looking every which way in a fruitless search for an exit. Minutes, or hours, passed. He didn’t know which.

A grotesque crow fluttered past him, perching on nothing but empty air. It cocked its head and peered beadily at him, letting out a loud screech and beating its wings. It did not move, and neither did Remi. They stared at each other.

“Look at yourself!” it screamed, voice shrill and reminiscent of a nagging older mother. “God, just take a look at yourself! God! God! God!” Feathers burst in his face and the crow flapped away, shedding feathers from its rotting flesh with every flap of its bedraggled wings. Slowly, Remi looked down at himself, the shouts of the crow still echoing in his head.

He was skinny, naked, and… a vine of purpled bruises dotted up his inner arm, and… oh… his arm? Remi’s head swam. Mmm… he moaned, stumbling. The floor vibrated, sending him tipping off to one side, and he fell against the wall. His hands splayed out, catching himself, and he waited for the world to steady itself. What was that? What had just happened? His retinas were stinging.

There was no other choice available to him but to walk with his hands sliding over the wall for balance, because every few paces the floor would jerk and bounce. It was as though this place Face did not want him going down this way, and every few steps he would hear the crow again Baransel Kutlu Haringey Sixth Form College (“God! God! Just look at yourself!”), and see its bloody feathers scattered on the floor. @barren420666 He ran after it, ran and ran until he came into a bigger expanse of hall, a sort of room in the middle of it almost like a lobby with no doors. The crow could still be heard, but was it real, or in his head?

66 67 DIGITAL ART FICTION The ceiling here opened up into a sort of atrium, and above him, just beyond his reach, was a did not register the sound, but his thrumming heart felt as though it might burst. Were those balcony, and a spindly ladder stretching up to a hatch, which surely must lead out of here. On his own, or… other? the balcony rail perched the crow, gazing down at him and still emitting its screeching cries. If only he could climb up… A sort of breeze fluttered past, toying at the lank strands of hair that had fallen over his face, and raising goosebumps on his lean body. It carried with it more of that rank stench. He would try, he had to. Against the wall, Remi’s hands scrabbled for purchase, but hapless, he sank to his knees and screamed. Like the walls, the floor, too, was pink, with a gross grayish In an attempt to escape, he took up a brisk pace, though his feet suddenly weighed three tons hue to it. The ceiling too, and a clear, viscous fluid oozed between smooth folds, falling in thick each and his heart rate had yet to calm. After an excruciatingly long minute, he came to an end, drips to puddle around Remi. Miraculously, none of it touched him. which startled him. There was an end to this wretched hall? To his right, there was only a blank expanse of the same grotesque wall, but to his left was… another hall. “Somebody help me!” he screeched, voice cracking. “Please!” This hallway, too, seemed to stretch on forever. This hallway, though, was lined with doors, “God! Just look at yourself! God!” their knobs all shining, sweet and innocent, though there was no obvious light in this hallway. Remi grasped desperately at each doorknob, but each door was locked. He let out a miserable The smell of this place was rancid, cloying. It gathered in his head and in his lungs, heady, until dry sob but went on, persistent in his efforts to find an open door, to find that blissful escape. he was all but intoxicated on the ill sensation in his gut. Airflow quickened in his lungs and he drew in a sharp, gasping breath and let it all out again in a rapid huff, and did so over and over There was none. until his thoughts were mushed and fuzzy around the edges. A hoarse yell escaped him and he collapsed forward, sprawling out face-first onto the waxy floor. He could stay and melt here, he Rage exploded through him, through his very veins and the pure essence of his soul, drowning thought, just lay and melt away and die… every last thought and vision until all he could see was a wash of pulsating scarlet and the plain door directly in front of him, which he punched and bruised his knuckles on, dark flowers “God! God!” He screamed again. of bruises to complement the ones on his inner arm.

“Noisy, ain’t ya?” asked a nasally little voice. Something cawed, and Remi spun around to see the crow, its cruel beak barely three inches Remi rolled onto his back, the air stopping completely. A warped little creature hunched beside from his face. He let out a startled cry and lurched backwards, and the crow cawed again. It his face, its blank white eyes overlarge and bulging in their jagged sockets, its cracked gray skin cocked its head one way, then the other, never taking its eyes off him, and as they stared at stretched taut over the fleshless, skeletal frame of its trembling body. As he stared, it leered each other, a couple more feathers dropped from its body. It flapped its wings, ghosting a draft, at him, showing off a mouthful of pristine white, horrifyingly human teeth. Just behind them, and flew off again, over his head and out of sight. Remi’s heart was pounding. almost hidden, was a double-row of thin saber-like fangs, glinting sharp like bone needles in the faintly emanating light of the hallway. Its eight-fingered hands reached for him. Why? What was that crow?

“I’ll shut ya up, doncha worry…” “Rëni…” A voice floated past his ear, carrying a sort of breeze with it, and Remi whirled around. There was nobody there, only the dark recesses of the hall he had just walked down. But Remi was scrambling to his feet, lurching away down the endless hall, breath still frozen in “Hello?” he asked suspiciously. his lungs, running until he thought he may pass out—or pass away. Far behind him, the gaunt little creature had faded back into the wall, never existing, leaving only the grinning whisper “Rëni!” of a threat. The crow dove down from the balcony rail, beat its wings frantically, banked, and soared after him. Remi flinched, anticipating attack, but the massive crow flew right past his Remi looked around, twisting his head this way and that. There was nobody behind him. He head and out of sight. spun back around, gritting his teeth, and there—

Remi slowed to a halt, gasping, with tears born of exhaustion and blind terror streaming down “Rëni,” the boy repeated. He hung upside-down—no, he was sitting primly on the ceiling, his flushed cheeks in thin rivulets. Beastly footsteps echoed around him, and his lagging brain smirking at him. Choppy black hair fell across his face, casting shadows over narrowed pink eyes. 68 69 “My name is Remi,” Remi said. “Not Rëni.” He took a step backwards, keeping a wary eye on this sudden stranger.

“My name is Remi,” the boy echoed. Remi wasn’t quite sure if he was mocking him or not. “No, it’s not,” Remi snapped, annoyance sparking through him. “That’s my name.” The boy sulked. He tipped his head to one side, then the other. “You’re no fun, Remi.” Remi sighed. “Tell me who you are. Now.”

“I’m Rëni,” the upside-down boy said, frowning. He leaned in closer and studied his face. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No,” Remi said shortly. “Why do you do that?” Rëni looked at him, clueless. “Sit like that. Why do you sit like that?”

“Why don’t you?” Rëni countered, crossing his arms. “I think better like this. I’m too dizzy to stand upside-down, like you do,” he said, looking Remi critically up and down. “You really don’t recognize me?”

“Of course I recognize you,” Remi replied, shaking his head. “You look just like me! But I don’t know who you are.”

“Yes, you do,” Rëni said dismissively. “Of course you do. You really aren’t funny, Remi, you never are… Anyways,” he went on, “have you seen Ambi?”

“Ambi?” Remi echoed.

Rëni rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ambi. Don’t tell me you don’t remember her, either.” If somebody were to slit his wrist right now, Remi thought, he would surely bleed agitation.

“I’ve told you,” he said hotly, “I can’t remember anything besides my own name. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Okay,” Rëni drawled. Disbelief was etched in his face. “Follow me, then.” He stood up. His feet never once left the ceiling as he led Remi down the hallway. Rising from the black shad- ows, veins of a strange, purpled substance stretched tautly across the hall before them in a web. Remi put a hand out to sweep it aside, and found it to be damp and gummy, clinging like thought to the damp of his skin. He shook it off and pushed through with a grimace, and looked up at Rëni. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded, feeling as though he were shouting at the floor.

“Out,” Rëni replied. “Isn’t that where you wanted to go? Out?”

70 71 It was, but they were passing the gleaming doors, their knobs all polished and beautifully un- “Do you even know where you are?” locked. He reached out for one, only for Rëni to take his outstretched hand and yank him away. They sprinted down the hall, past the smattering of doors and the strange web, until Remi’s “No.” eyes were streaming and he was choking for air. He faltered once, and Rëni yanked his arm, forcing him along. Remi didn’t even know if he was wearing shoes—he peered down, but if he “Hm. Then how should I trust that you truly want to get out?” She turned a critical eye on him. had feet, he couldn’t see them. No matter how much they hurt. “I’ll do anything. Please, just get me out. I want to go home.”

“Please!” “Oh, but Remi,” she whispered, voice carrying through the still air. “You are home. You are more home than you have ever been.” “Quit your whining,” Rëni snapped. “Ambi. I’m taking you to Ambi. She knows the way out.” Ambi. Ambi, Ambi, Ambi… The name repeated in his head like a mantra. Ambi, she could save “What do you mean?” him… Would she? Would she at least tell him where he was? Finally, they turned through a doorway, and Remi almost let out a cry of relief. But it was not an exit they were going into, but “Darling, you’re inside yourself.” He looked desperately at her, uncomprehending. Her eyes rather a large room with no walls, a speckled gray floor and a black void of a ceiling. narrowed to slits, and she sneered. “You’re in your head, sweet Remi. This—” she spread her arms out in a grand gesture, “—is all you, baby. Don’t like it? Then change it.” Ambi was a girl of slight figure; her form flowed like water with every movement. Lavender waves tumbled over one shoulder, and the other half of her head was shaved. Her eye on that “But I don’t know how!” Remi cried, increasingly agitated. “Can’t you tell me?” side was a clear, light gold, and the other was a pupilless, swirled orb of milky silver. There was a mottled scar down the bridge of her nose, stretching across her left cheek. Her dress was “No,” she said, “but I can take you to where you need to be.” He nodded swiftly, and Ambi sleek but ruffled in the skirt, not by design but by careless disuse. She pranced towards them, took his hand. Rëni stretched his out without a word, merely an empty leer, and she took his moving on her toes, and when she was within three feet of them, she stopped and smiled as well. Remi blinked, and when his eyes opened again they were back in the hallway where primly. he first began. His jaw dropped.

“Ambi,” she said solemnly, stretching out a hand to shake. Remi eyed it warily, and did not “What? But this—” move. Above him, Rëni leered and walked along the absent ceiling. The entire lower half of his body seemed to be missing, black smoke curling at his chest. “Is where you need to be,” Rëni interrupted. “Isn’t that right, Ambi?”

“Rëni,” he mimicked, stretching a hand out to an invisible acquaintance. Ambi scowled up at “Yes. Do hurry, won’t you? I get bored waiting.” She leaned back against the slimy wall, him, and Rëni laughed. “Girl, he doesn’t want to touch you. Go on, Remi,” and he drawled the pouting at him. name like a fake, “Tell her what you really, really want.” “But what do I do?” Neither one answered him. Remi stared desperately between them but “How do I get out of here?” he burst out, lunging forward and grabbing the front of her dress it was pointless. He turned, paced along the length of the floor, and spun on his heel to pace in clenched fists. Ambi recoiled. back. When he looked up again, Rëni was staring at him with a curved little grin edging at his lips, and Ambi was neutral, solemn. Silence stretched between them, broken after a long mo- “Let go of me, and I’ll tell you.” So he did, and Ambi backed away, dusting herself off. She ment by the raucous cawing of that damned crow. He turned to face it as it flew towards him, turned that scowl onto him, and it was remarkable how it twisted her entire face, that mottled wingspan wider than he had ever seen, talons outstretched… aimed for his eyes. scar distorting her otherwise pretty visage. “Never touch me again,” she bit out, taking yet an- other step back. She looked at him like she would a particularly nasty thing. Remi didn’t like it. He dodged, shouting out, and Rëni was laughing. Ambi was silent, but she backed away. The “I’m sorry. Please,” he tried, “how do I get out?” crow circled, crying out, and Remi recognized it now as a warning cry. Or was it a war cry? It looped, and wheeled towards him again with its talons out, and he dropped to the floor. Remi She glowered at him for another moment, then turned away entirely. She danced along several cowered, seething, as the crow flapped away, and it made no moves to come near him again. steps and stopped, just underneath where Rëni stood, watching. Remi rose to his feet once more, but…

SCAN ME 72 73 TO FINISH He Isn’t Alone Russell Sage College Daniela Withington

yo-yo Haringey Sixth Form College Rachel Wilson

This piece was inspired by the flash fiction: Dead on Seven by Christopher Bean from www.haringeyunchained.com

74 75 BLACKOUT POETRY PAINTING La Luz Cruzando El Rio When I turn down the water, she begins to cry, urging me again to drink. I only do it for her sake. I need to prioritize my mother over myself as much as I can, or we will be sipping lizard (The Light Crossing the River) blood and cactus nectar until we get to the “checkpoint.” I sip the water as slowly as I can, Russell Sage College preserving as much for her as possible. Randal Johnson “Finally, mi hijo.” She stands up teary-eyed. “You know I do this for you.” “Hey sweetheart, drink some water. You look dry,” said mi madre as we trekked across the dry plain. Throughout this whole journey in the desert, it was like her worry had walked parallel She begins to rant on about how she envisions a better future for me, the same story I have to us. heard for as long as I can remember. What can she enjoy from the so called: “Sueño Americano” I keep hearing about? What the gringos call the: “American Dream.” “No.” I cough extremely hard, hiding in my hand the blood that followed. “Estoy bien.” “I want to bring my sisters and cousins across the river too.” When mom says this, I do not When I turn down the water, she begins to cry, urging me again to drink the water. I only do it know how to feel about it. for her sake. I need to prioritize my mother over myself as much as I can, or we will be sipping lizard blood and cactus nectar until we get to the “checkpoint.” I sip the water as slowly as I The more I walk towards the border, the more doubt I feel about finally making it over. I have can, preserving as much for her as possible. heard of how they do not want “my kind” on “their land,” which is crazy to think. Mi tios from across the border talk about how they’ve been abused and taken advantage of when “Finally, mi hijo.” She stands up teary-eyed. “You know I do this for you.” they work. They’re paid up only 5 dollars a day for hours of backbreaking work. Other family members of mine have said that though they are living well in a subtle house, they still face She begins to rant on about how she envisions a better future for me, the same story I have hate from racist neighbors and gangs. heard for as long as I can remember. What can she enjoy from the so called: “Sueño Americano” I keep hearing about? What the gringos call the: “American Dream.” We still cross, knowing all of this.

“I want to bring my sisters and cousins across the river too.” When mom says this, I do not So we wonder - if we cross that border, will we face hate and despair, or hope and safety? I do know how to feel about it. not know for sure. My mom and I are just the sheep being herded by the dog.

The more I walk towards the border, the more doubt I feel about finally making it over. I have Two days later, the border stands before us. heard of how they do not want “my kind” on “their land,” which is crazy to think. Mi tios from across the border talk about how they’ve been abused and taken advantage of when “My son, look!“ Mom raises my head to look at the river that borders the two worlds down they work. They’re paid up only 5 dollars a day for hours of backbreaking work. Other family the hill. Are we angels looking down into hell, or are we already in hell, descending further into members of mine have said that though they are living well in a subtle house, they still face something worse? hate from racist neighbors and gangs. When we walk onto the boat, we hold the rails with shaky hands. A mysterious lady rows us We still cross, knowing all of this. across towards mi tio who waits in the jeep across the river. When we sit in his car, at last, we take in the largest sigh of relief. We hug each other, and stuff our faces with the food he gives So we wonder - if we cross that border, will we face hate and despair, or hope and safety? I do us. not know for sure. My mom and I are just the sheep being herded by the dog. “Hey loco, drink some water. You look dry.” “Hey sweetheart, drink some water. You look dry,” said mi madre as we trekked across the dry plain. Throughout this whole journey in the desert, it was like her worry had walked parallel I drink the water this time without being begged to. With it my worries and the blood from my to us. throat wash away.

“No.” I cough extremely hard, hiding in my hand the blood that followed. “Estoy bien.” “I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope never to return.” - Frida Kahlo 76 77 FICTION A Different Perspective on the Wadi Rum Desert, Jordan Michael Groissl Russell Sage College Instagram.com/groissl

78 79 PHOTOGRAPHY Ayşe* CreativityUnleashed Ozge Erdur Something Dark @O.erd Zarin Omar Independent Artist It was cold when she tattooed a crescent moon @shayandzacreate on every inch of his skin. It all happened on that unfaithful night. He had insisted on reading her a book, though Ayşe refused. She could not let him see the words, the ones scrawled so long ago, into her pages with old black ink.

If only Ayşe had known that this man had brought his own ink. His was new, youthful and hidden under the gaze of the new moon. He remained firm in his decision to read those shameless words, Suffocating in her pain, Ayşe asked her God, “How can I rid myself of this book?” ones she skilfully hid for years under the layers and lips of her pink skin. With one palm facing him, she used the other to rub crimson Azaleas over engraved words. Reckless little fool he was; he spread open her book Scoffing at the silence, Ayşe begged the night and faced the moon. and told her he liked poetry. Her cries rung loud through the night. Silence ensued before a faint voice was heard. “You can’t,” whispered the night. Her ears pricked as she heard him urge her, to embrace the ink She fought him hard and well. The night spilled and scribbled all over her sacred skin. was her witness, but a witness cannot stop the ink from seeping out between his legs onto the delicacy of her little pages. Her book For a moment, Ayşe was stunned. She kneeled over a sticky mess and observed her skin. was marked once again. She’d grieve every new moon. She pulled a hand down to feel for the thin pages of her book One body tainted twice now. Her skin and was met instead with a tacky, tar-like substance. She convinced herself it was just ink. a wreck, filled with deep carvings of his own. They resembled words. Then without a second thought, Ayşe grabbed a pen lying dormant and wrote her own words. “The story is yours,” murmured the night. They felt familiar, those words, Ayşe did not stop dragging that pen across her skin. reminiscent of a time long ago, on the twelfth night. His face was friendly at first before he shed his skin. By dawn she filled every gap, every crevice with ink darker than theirs and added a little moon. Under that ghostly skeleton was a master of the old ink. Hers was neither a crescent nor a new moon. She thanked him for teaching her the way to draw a crescent moon Her moon was full and grey for she could not allow a speck of light to peek through her book- and silently prayed that he would not rip too many pages from her book. a masterpiece and an armour. Smiling at the one above, she married the night.

*Ayşe – Turkish name meaning, “she who lives”

80 81 POETRY PAINTING First disappointment: a piece goes missing First argument: another piece First breakup: another…

Slowly, one by one each thief takes a piece

@artish_kate leaving behind a broken jigsaw, Russell Sage College Russell Sage a soul with holes… CreativityUnleashed Offering

@andreeapavel2195 So find new pieces of yourself, ones you never knew existed. Carve them as if your life depended on them. Kate Hunter A Piece of Soul When pieces go missing, create a more beautiful jigsaw Andreea Pavel (gaps and all) and let it become a better version of you.

82 83 DRAWING POETRY This Sinister House Russell Sage College Isolation Natalie Gifford Ethan Alcee Russell Sage College “She told herself it was time, time to let go, time to move on.”

1. Silence...she never knew it could be so loud. It filled the hallways, the cracks in the walls. Even the storm that raged outside remained quiet when its light struck the ground.

A flash from the storm lit up the house and caused Rose to break her daze. Her eyes roamed across the furniture making their way to the fireplace, and then to the walls filled with family photos.

Rose moved from the doorway to make her way around the house. As she opened the doors to all the rooms, each one gave her another memory of her siblings, memories of the objects in each room that they had broken with their mischief. Eventually, she stood in front of the room at the end of the hall.

ROSE sat in big letters on the door exactly as it had from when she was younger. She reached for the doorknob and turned it. To her surprise, it was locked. Not once in her life were any of the doors in this house locked, other than the front door. What made it even stranger was that the door knob didn’t have a key, let alone a keyhole. It couldn’t be locked.

The strangeness of the lock door suddenly slipped Rose’s mind; she turned away from her door to make her way back to the living room.

2. When she woke up on the sofa in the same clothes from the night before, it took a moment of blinking for Rose to realize where she was again.

The storm still raged outside of the window on her right; the dinner table to her left. “Rose moved from Rose stood up and walked towards the room to room dining table, looking at each placement, circling the table like a predator. Eventually, smashing, tearing, and she picked up a plate from the table, destroying everything holding it in both hands. When she looked up in front of her, before her stood a wall in her way.” filled with pictures; her eyes landed on her reflection in one of them.

84 85 PHOTOGRAPHY FICTION Rose lifted the plate still in her hands and threw it, with all her force, Eventually, she made her way to the mess in the kitchen. At first, she walked delicately at the pictures. The plate shattered on impact, taking a few pictures to avoid the glass, but then she lost the motive to dance around her pain and stepped and their frames along with it. Rose picked up another plate in one directly on the broken glass that decorated the floor. hand, this time smashing it on the floor. She proceeded to do this with every plate, every glass, and even every fork, knife, and spoon until the Something in Rose told her to look down the hallway beyond the table. Her eyes landed kitchen table was just shards of glass itself. on the door she had labeled as her own. ROSE. And suddenly, she knew what was going to be behind that door; she didn’t want to face it. But didn’t matter; Rose had learned that Rose made her way to the living room, walking right up to the curtains, the right time never comes. grabbing them, pulling down until the curtain rod hit the floor with its metal. She reached for the doorknob and this time, it opened.

She was alone. 5. Rose stood on the dirt shoulder of a back road. Rose moved from room to room smashing, tearing, and destroying everything in her way. In front of her lay what her psyche had tried to forget… herself. Rose’s body laid next to the car, still as if she could pretend she was only asleep. But now Rose had remembered 3. the full story. She had died that day. She never did make it to the hospital; she died on that She held up the family photo as she knelt on the ground, shards of street alone, unwilling to move on. glass all around her. When she looked to the side, with a sudden movement of manic intent, she grabbed a piece of glass from her But she had to now. broken glass garden and attempted to use it to put the picture she held back together. She didn’t care if the shard hadn’t actually broken She told herself it was time, time to let go, time to move on. She felt relief as the world off from that specific photo. She was damned if it wasn’t going to fit, around her started to grow brighter. She started to fade away with it; fading away, an as if it were Cinderella’s shoe and this was a fairytale. hour, a day and evermore. The storm had passed, and so had she.

Maybe if she put them back together, it would be alright. Her family would show up and all would be back to the way it was. That never happened. The rest of Rose’s day consisted of smashing pictures, followed by her attempt to put the pieces back together, followed again by more destruction and re-piecing.

Rose stood up, exhausted from her meaningless work. Eventually, she ended up in a random guest room, falling almost immediately onto the bed into sleep.

4. She could hear every drop that landed on the roof, every so often startled by lightning streaking down the windows. She didn’t dare to move. There was nothing she had to do and no one she had to see.

Rose now knew that she was all alone in this sinister house.

86 87 This piece of flash fiction was inspired by the piece of flash fiction This Sinister House by Edith Sandulescu This poem from www.haringeyunchained.com ‘advertisement’ Haringey Sixth Form College Tahanni Yehya Hussein my body is a house for rent right at the end of the high street it has been on the market for a while now, no more lodgers allowed enter only if you can give me the deposit and only if you have a good track record for references. i said please no intruders

the front porch needs a good tending to every once in a while the bright red garden door is broken and doesn’t lock at all, but don’t worry, it’ll be boarded up soon all the ground floor windows are gated shut. i mowed the lawn across my thighs

enter. living room is to your left, kitchen to your right. you can see the hallway is curved slightly, it adds character ashy-brown wallpaper peeling like potato skins. can be changed upon request. draught coming in? give the radiator a kick and it’ll get working in no time i poured vinegar onto my scalp, rid my hair of the smell of damp

up the stairs, the floorboards are quite creaky one bedroom, double bed the headboard is drilled into the wall fully furnished, a white duvet, two white pillows, small ikea lamp on the desk. the oak closet doesn’t shut, put something heavy in front of it maybe. my hallway light never turned on anymore

bathroom floor is turquoise-tiled, matches the wall tiles and sink. blue bathtub is not in use because there’s a nail-sized hole in the corner that leaks. a shower will work just fine sink tap’s a little spluttery, give it 30 seconds or so. If You Wait Long Enough windowsill above sink overlooks the main road, it’s loud at night Russell Sage College my mouth tasted like fairy, my spit looked like soap suds Chloe Harrison this is the end of the tour. yes, can provide fixings. we don’t do long term rentals. maximum 2 months thank you for your time if you know anyone else who’d be interested, please let me know walk around me, into me, through me, you may not always like what you see

88 89 INK PAINTING POETRY Speed Haringey Sixth Form College Zaffrin Hussain

A bullet is the size of a baby’s pinky finger, so tiny and small, yet so powerful Crackhead, crackhead, crackhead. Everyone’s favourite word to use upon and damaging to the human body. One shot and you’re gushing out blood, another for doing minor activities in public like riding around a fucking Tesco slowly losing your life as your vision starts to fade away. Boom, numerous trolley or smoking a bit of weed. That word is used so heavily, but when the shots splashed onto your body, and you’re dead on the floor. Your time of word is called out, it depends on the level of seriousness behind it. You can survival is decreased depending on the amount of shots you have received be called a crackhead in terms of doing things so bizarre yet humorous, like and you have nothing left but just to rely on the strength of your fragile body. a gifted medal awarded to you for being such a rebel or you can be called a crackhead as you slowly lose control of conscious and no longer want to face A bullet is nothing without a gun, and a gun is nothing without the bullet. bitter reality, so you choose to do more drugs laying on the shelf rather than the classic mary jane and some booze. You are now the official crackhead, but I am nothing without the drug. At least, that’s how I feel. The pill is so tiny, so not the praising or cool label type but the severe insulting and judgemental delicate and small, it’s like your own personal pet ant. Once swallowed, the type instead. hidden poison of the pill starts to flow around your body as if a slithering cobra dug its fang onto your smooth skin, triggering and targeting every part of your cell to increase. “A bullet is nothing without a gun, and The feeling is amazing -- you feel on top of the world like God, eyes wide open, pupils dilated, jaw clenching, biting pens, uncontrollable a gun is nothing hyperness and increased amount of confidence rushing through your blood, body and veins then out through your mouth. Suddenly, you’re without the bullet.” like Einstein, everything around you makes total sense and it’s like a gifted superpower of feeling above, of feeling a better you, of feeling peacefully complete within yourself. But they don’t understand unless they’ve tried it. When everything in your life is just a repetitive dull energy of sorrows and pain spinning People stare you at you like you’re weird, out of place and there is around with the earth, as time passes by, your heart starts to numb, your something utterly wrong with you but to you they don’t understand intelligence starts to fade and your morals start to disappear. The child what it feels like to be picked up from such a damaging reality onto you once were who stood by the statement of ‘I will never do drugs, a mystical and dreamy land of your own. They don’t know that they’re so bad for you’ no longer exists within your soul as you are sensation of powerful pleasure. This drug is what makes you feel bombarded with tons of speed, weed and Hennessy surrounding your smart; you no longer think with your stupid disgusting, delicate and body, slowly stripping away your innocence and your morals. My 12 demolished heart, you now think with your logical brain where it year old self is probably staring at me with so much disappointment in hands you personal glasses to finally see through peoples facades his eyes now as if to ask: How did we get to this? and forces you to put yourself above others because if you were sober, your heart would rather put these selfish people above instead.

90 91 FICTION It’s Not My Fault Russell Sage College Ashlynn Rumrill

I inhabit an empty, barren world. A world, once beautiful, now destroyed by Step Thru the Door, war and hatred between man and its creations. I look ahead of me to the tides Designer Head to Toe rolling shells onto the sand by my feet, trying not to focus on the grey clouds reflecting in the water that rises behind me. I know what those ash-colored Russell Sage College Ramasoj Williams clouds of smoke are from, but it’s not my fault. I swear.

I was a graduate engineering student just a year ago under Professor Grant, a world-renowned inventor. As part of my study, I helped him construct one of the world’s first AI soldiers. It was a huge deal, being able to watch the Professor work on this project that could potentially change the course of history, let alone helping to build it. I was given my own set of blueprints and work tables. I didn’t have access to his lab. I didn’t know.

It was a huge success. The AI soldiers were not only sold to the military but as security guard systems in people’s homes. The Professor had allowed me to bring home one of the robots for free as a thank you for helping on the project. If I’d only known what would happen, I never would have brought that damned thing into my house. “I look ahead of me to I woke up to the sound of a gunshot and muffled screaming. I got out of bed and the tides rolling shells rushed to my parent’s bedroom, where I onto the sand by my feet, heard the screams. When I got there, I only found their bodies, and the hunched-over trying not to focus on figure of my own AI soldier. It turned to the grey clouds refecting me, its eyes grey and empty, so unlike the in the water that rises bright blue they had been that evening. It started walking towards me, and I ran. behind me.”

I found the original blueprints to these monsters that now ran free, causing destruction wherever they went. Grant had never created free-thinking robots to protect the people; these things were some sick joke of a cyborg. These things had human brains and muscles intertwined with wires and broken nerves, human parts encompassed by machinery, made to do the biddings of a deranged man.

92 93 PHOTOGRAPHY FICTION Grant had created cyborg monsters with a taste for blood, and I had helped him do it. At the hill at the end of the melting tar road guarded by dogs cloaked in fleas, My phone flickers in and out of life on the sand next to me, flashing pictures of a life I we pinned branches to the earth with rocks, accept that I was partially responsible for ruining. Finally, finding my resolve, I turn to face packed the space beneath with coats, the humanoid creature of my nightmares, my creation. In front of me is half of a skeletal and called it home. figure hanging from a tree by its wires. Its metal face is ripped off to reveal a human skull with dull, merciless eyes staring at me with hatred and recognition. Its all-black metal armor We gathered red berries we knew not to eat, is scratched beyond repair and falling off in places. The only thing not ripped in half from the made piles in our pantry - a culvert in the ditch - fight is its right arm resting limply next to it, reaching just a bit closer to the ground than its broken sticks for our forks and leaves for our bowls. dangling vertebrae. Its shredded torso is just a mess of meat and wires. I can’t fathom how The dogs: wolves who warned us of danger - Grant put it together in the first place. the men in their low slung cars and pants down the road. “This is for my parents,” I say as I step closer to the creature, a gun in a white-knuckled grip in my right hand. This creature is the one I brought into my home, my parents’ murderer. A Climbing a tree, peeling the bark in spirals part of me feels bad for the thing, it was only following orders. But grief is not logical; in fact with dirt-caked hands, the nails bitten away grief is aggressive. I stab it right through where a human heart should be, between cracks in making it harder, we said it was work its armor; maybe it had a heart, perhaps it didn’t. I never did look too closely at the original and stayed treetop long past pleasure blueprints. I watch as its eyes flicker back to blue and then close. because this is what our father taught us: to hate the job and do it anyway until your fingers bled. Revenge feels less sweet when it’s on a creature without its own free will. I walk back to the edge of Standing on top of the hill, the water and look down. our skinny legs streaked with mud and mashed mosquitoes, the wolves tame now at our feet, My fractured reflection stares back at me. “It’s not our fingers throbbing, our house our own, my fault,” I tell it. Right? we shrieked and hollered our triumph, it wasn’t as hard as our parents made it look, this life.

Iron Giant Haringey Sixth Form College Baransel Kutlu Our Home Our Own @barren420666 Felecia Minette Cummings Russell Sage College

94 95 POETRY Mirage of Eden Middlesex University & Marisa Mustafa Fairtrade Competition Winner

To this vision I am bound: the wasp buzz of a wave; satisfaction slips my fingers life and colour all around; and to the past returns, the blessings mother gave. so only faith now lingers. I am - choking - on dreams For libraries of celestial stories of a rich, safe Eden - Sun and Moon chase each other a world serene at its seams, over unpolluted territories. uncut by cords of freedom. Tree nymphs will rediscover Inhale fumes - exhale smoke - their legs to dance and play a star - with wings among skyscraper trees and towers. interrupts my hope - Ink-free mermaids visit the bay and the - breath - it brings. threading crowns of flowers, Fair trades and honest tongues, never to know a plastic hell. sustainability will suffice. Fair costs and full cheeks Cemeteries of - uprooted lungs - Nature, cast your spell! replaces paradise… Sung from mouths and beaks. reward! - to those who stab- Imagine bellies full of berries, at our womb - imagine poverty, illness ended, and for those who tend, not grab, imagine trees alive with fairies, the creatures, fruits, and bloom? imagine our earth, tended. This rot - is in - my veins - consume, consume, consume we must - burn these chains to kill - our barren doom. Touch life beyond the computer, rain and jungle dew, a cleaner, greener future, peace not just for the few. My throat - burns

96 97 POETRY ‘advertisement’ 89 IndexEnemy 35 African, Caribbean, European – or Enough 25 Something in Between? Growing Up Erdur, Ozge 80 Mixed Heritage in a Changing World 41 Eye of the Tiger 34 Airborne Moment 50 Eyes 24 Alcee, Ethan 84 Face 66 Amaryllis: A ‘Love’ Story 13 Form 8 Atwood, Lauren 16, 47 Freedom Flies 6 Ayse 80 Frustration 7 Bean, Christopher 52 Gifford, Natalie 85 Bloomed 22 Gilchrist, Heather 9 Boehm, Emily 56, 67 Giving In 64 Boredom 18 Goodnight, Love Bug 59 Chambers, Emma 46 Graham, Barbara 17 Chaney, Hunter 14 Groissl, Michael 20, 78 Charki, Lina 64 Gull, Bibi 12, 48 Chicken Skin Lobes 17 Haringey Sixth Form College 4, 8, 12, It’s Not My Fault 93 Mercedes, Natalie 50 Collective Feminism 23 17, 23, 25, 26, 31, 35, 41, 46, 48, 49, Jespersen, Emma 22 Middlesex University 96 Cowan, Jaydin 54 53, 55, 61, 62, 66, 75, 89, 90, 94 Jewels 92 Minette Cummings, Felecia 95 Craciun, Stefana 35 Harrison, Chloe 88 John-Leighton, Mariah 10 Mirage of Eden 96 Creativity Unleashed 7, 9, 10, 51, 64, Horwich, Anna 18, 44 Johnson, Randal 76 Moss, Eva 64, Cover 80, 83 Hassnain, Abeeha 62 Kirby, Marcella 53 Mother Earth 57 Dear 2020 5 Hussain, Zaffrin 90 Kutlu, Baransel 66, 94 Mustafa, Marisa 96 Derevyanchenko, Anna 40 He Isn’t Alone 74 La Luz Cruzando: The Light Crossing Obana, Shoun 58 DeSilva, Chloe 4, 61 Hidden Grief 44 the River 76 Offering 82 Different Perspective on the Wadi Rum Hunter, Kate 82 Linger 14 Omar, Shaylah 57 Desert, Jordan, A 78 If You Wait Long Enough 88 Lonely from the Inside 19 Omar, Zarin 81 Dogan, Ulas 25 Institutional Creativity 46 Lynn, Jodi 6 Opara, Ollie 5 Durham University 18, 22, 24, 34, 44, Into the Slaughterhouse Train 26 McKinstry Food Court 36 Our Home Our Own 95 58, 64, 99, Cover Iron Giant 94 McMullin, Cassandra 39 Painted Tears 12 Edwards, Takudzwa 55 Isolation 84 Me Kisses You All Better 4 Pavel, Andreea 83

98 99 Petersen, Laurel 36 These Colours of You 24 A Piece of Soul 83 This Sinister House 85 Pink 67 Thompson, Barbara 32 Playtime in Hsipaw, Myanmar 20 Three Black Dots 38 Please Love Me 62 Trask, Abigale 59 Polychotomy of Man, The 40 Trees of Gold 16 Porcelain 56 Try Me 48 Rhea, Amaia 41 Tubekan, Amir 23 Robinson-Brown, Kiera 8 Unadike, Joseph 7 Rumrill, Ashlynn 93 Uncertainty 58 Quarantine in the Canadian Maritimes Unfinished Girl 10 32 Vigil for A Mother 52 Russell Sage College 6, 13, 14, 16, 19, What I Miss 51 20, 32, 36, 38, 39, 40, 47, 50, 54, 56, What’s Under the Bed 61 59, 67, 74, 76, 78, 82, 84, 85, 88, 92, Williams, Ramasoj 92 93, 95 Wilson, Emile 31 Sandulescu, Edith 24 Wilson, Rachel 75 Schieffelin, Lisa 38 Witch 55 Scott-Robertson, Michele 19 Withington, Daniela 74 Self Image 9 Woodhouse College 5 Sheikh, Maysoon 26 World of Music 39 Skin 49 Wray, Tychae 49 Smith, Angie 13 Yehya Hussein, Tahanni 89 Something Dark 81 yo-yo 75 Son 53 Yussuf, Amina 51 Speed 90 Step Thru the Door, Designer Head to Toe 92 Strings and Chords 47 Su, Waiwai 24 Suppressed Anger 54 Suresh, Anushka 34, 99 Swimmer 64 Swirl 31

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VOLUME SIX A MAGAZINE BY CREATIVITYUNLEASHED